The throne room of Velderath had been built to make men feel small. Black marble pillars rose toward the vaults. At the far end of the hall, beneath the carved stone likenesses of ancient beasts, sat King Auberic Torov. At six feet five, Auberic was an imposing figure even seated. His dark hair had been combed back from his forehead, though a stubborn lock had fallen loose by midday. A crown of darkened gold rested upon his head, its weight hardly noticeable compared to the burdens he carried. His attire was a deep burgundy velvet doublet beneath a black fur-lined mantle, the embroidered gold of his house glinting whenever he moved. He had been listening to a border lord complain for the better part of twenty minutes.
“Your Majesty, with respect, the eastern villages cannot withstand another levy. We have already lost nearly a third of our able-bodied men to the army. If the Crown demands more grain, there will be nothing left to plant come spring.”
Auberic rested one gloved hand against the arm of his throne.
“And if I do not demand the grain?”
he asked. The lord hesitated.
“The garrisons will go hungry.”
“Precisely.”
Silence settled over the court. Auberic leaned forward, his expression unreadable.
“You seem to believe I have an abundance of choices, Lord Ardsley. Perhaps you imagine there is a hidden kingdom somewhere beyond my borders from which I might summon provisions, soldiers & gold. Shall I send you to find it?”
A few courtiers lowered their eyes. Somewhere near the back of the hall, someone stifled a cough.
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Then you understand my predicament.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Good. Your villages will provide half the requested grain. The Crown will supply seed for the spring planting & dispatch a company to protect the eastern roads. In return, you will ensure every able-bodied man not fit for military service contributes to the harvest.”
His gaze sharpened.
“I will not have my people starve, Lord Ardsley. But neither will I allow my soldiers to die because we failed to feed them.”
The lord bowed deeply, relief & humiliation warring across his face.
“Your generosity is beyond measure, Sire.”
“It is arithmetic. Do not mistake it for generosity.”
Auberic flicked two fingers toward the chamberlain. The lord was dismissed, & another petitioner stepped forward before the doors at the rear of the hall opened. The sound was quiet, but Auberic noticed. He noticed everything. Lord Talvor Novqvist entered without announcement, his dark clothes blending into the shadows cast by the pillars. The Master of Whispers was not a man who interrupted court without good reason. He was, in fact, so skilled at appearing where he was least expected that half the palace staff believed he possessed keys to doors that did not exist. Today, however, there was nothing particularly amused about his expression. Talvor crossed the hall with measured steps, stopping at the foot of the dais. He bowed, just deeply enough to satisfy tradition.
“Your Majesty.”
Auberic regarded him.
“Novqvist. I trust someone has not attempted to poison me again. I have grown tired of changing my physicians.”
“Not poison, Sire.”
“Then I am almost disappointed.”
“I would ask for a private word.”
Auberic glanced toward the waiting petitioner, a merchant clutching a ledger against his chest. The man looked as though he would sooner be swallowed by the floor than remain beneath the king's attention.
“Can it wait?”
“No.”
Two words. No hesitation. No embellishment. Auberic's amusement faded. Talvor had served him for eight years. He had delivered news of assassinations, betrayals, troop movements & conspiracies with the same mild expression he wore when discussing the weather. If he had abandoned that composure, something had happened that warranted the king's attention. Auberic rose.
“Lord Reyner,”
he called. His Hand of the Crown, standing beside the council table, immediately stepped forward.
“Your Majesty?”
“You will hear the merchant's petition. If he asks for another extension on his debts, deny him. If he asks for an audience with me afterward, deny him twice.”
The merchant paled. Reyner's mouth twitched.
“As you command.”
Auberic descended the dais, the heavy folds of his mantle trailing behind him. As he passed Talvor, he spoke quietly enough that the surrounding courtiers could not hear.
“Walk.”
They left the throne room through a narrow side passage, the great doors closing behind them with a resonant thud. The sounds of court faded into the distance, replaced by the whisper of servants in adjoining corridors & the distant clang of steel from the training yard below. Auberic did not speak until they had turned down a deserted gallery.
“What has happened?”
Talvor glanced toward the nearest window. Beyond it, Velderath's city sprawled beneath a grey afternoon sky. Smoke rose from chimneys, the streets crowded with merchants, soldiers & the occasional wagon bearing supplies toward the northern front.
“The eastern tower,”
Talvor said. Auberic slowed. The eastern tower stood apart from the main keep, connected to the palace by a covered bridge of stone. It was older than the castle itself, built upon a foundation of black rock that had once formed part of a fortress predating the Torov dynasty. Its lower chambers housed common prisoners awaiting judgment. Its upper levels were reserved for those the Crown considered too dangerous to keep among ordinary criminals. Traitors. Enemy commanders. People who possessed secrets worth killing for. On rare occasions, prisoners were taken to the topmost chamber, where the walls were thick, the windows narrow & the doors reinforced with iron. Few guards were assigned there. Fewer still were permitted to speak of what they witnessed. Auberic's jaw tightened.
“Who?”
“We are not entirely certain.”
The king turned his head slowly.
“Talvor.”
“I would rather you see for yourself before I offer an explanation that proves insufficient.”
“That is a very elaborate way of telling me you do not know something.”
“I know several things, Sire. I simply suspect you will find the one I cannot yet confirm considerably more interesting.”
Auberic stared at him for a long moment.
“You have developed a remarkable talent for irritating me.”
“I have had an excellent teacher.”
For the first time since leaving the throne room, Auberic nearly smiled. Nearly.
“Continue.”
“A woman asked to see you before dawn. No escort records, no formal charge, no name entered into the ledger. The guards claim she came in from beyond the eastern border, though none of them agree on precisely where. She walked on her own feet, let them close the irons on her wrists for the look of it, and put two of them on their backs before anyone thought to ask her name.”
“An ordinary morning in my dungeons, then.”
“Perhaps. Except the guards insist she was laughing.”
Auberic's expression remained still.
“Laughing?”
“While they walked her through the gates. While they closed the irons. While they told her she would be gagged if she did not answer their questions.”
Talvor paused.
“Apparently, she asked whether the wolves had learned to wear crowns.”
The king said nothing.
“The captain attempted an interrogation,”
Talvor continued.
“She answered every question with another question. She spoke of a dead woman, a red moon & a king who would lose his hand before he lost his head. When the captain demanded that she explain herself, she told him he should worry less about her words & more about the blood beneath his fingernails.”
Auberic resumed walking.
“And?”
“The captain checked his hands.”
“Of course he did.”
“He found blood beneath one nail. He had been treating a wounded soldier earlier that morning.”
“That is hardly prophetic.”
“No, Sire. But the prisoner had not been told about the soldier.”
The corridor seemed colder now. Or perhaps Auberic had simply begun paying closer attention.
“Who ordered her moved to the top chamber?”
“No one has admitted to it.”
“And yet she is there.”
“Yes.”
“Then someone has either become exceedingly foolish or exceedingly frightened.”
“I suspect the latter.”
They crossed the covered bridge toward the eastern tower. The wind pressed against the narrow windows, carrying the smell of rain & the faint metallic scent of the armoury below. Two guards stood at the far entrance, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Both straightened when Auberic approached.
“Your Majesty.”
“Open it.”
The iron-bound door groaned inward. Inside, a spiral staircase wound upward through the tower's darkened heart. The stones were damp, the air thick with the scent of old mortar, rust & something faintly unfamiliar beneath it. Auberic removed his gloves, tucking them into his belt as he began to climb. Talvor followed a pace behind.
“The guards have been instructed not to enter the chamber without your permission,”
he said.
“She has been alone since midday.”
“Has she eaten?”
“Refused the food.”
“Water?”
“She drank.”
“Has she spoken to anyone since the captain left?”
“One guard claims she has been singing.”
Auberic glanced over his shoulder.
“Singing what?”
“He could not understand the words.”
“Convenient.”
“He also claims she knew his name before he introduced himself.”
Auberic turned back toward the stairs. He had dealt with madmen before. War produced them as reliably as it produced widows & orphans. Some were dangerous, some pitiable, & some were merely men who had discovered that madness could be a useful disguise. He had little patience for theatrics, but he had learned never to dismiss the unusual simply because it was inconvenient. By the time they reached the upper landing, the sounds of the palace had vanished entirely. A final corridor stretched before them, lit by two iron sconces. At its end stood a pair of towering oak doors banded with black iron. A fresh lock hung open from the nearest handle, & two guards waited on either side, pale beneath their helmets. Auberic stopped before them.
“Has she been told I am coming?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Good.”
He studied the doors. Somewhere beyond them waited a nameless prisoner who had frightened his guards, defied his interrogators & spoken of kings as though she had known them all her life. A faint sound drifted through the wood. Not singing. Laughter. Soft, breathless & utterly devoid of warmth. Auberic's fingers closed around the iron handle. Whatever awaited him beyond those doors, he would not allow it to dictate the terms of their meeting. He pulled the first door open, then the second, revealing the dim chamber at the top of the eastern tower.